


Bulletproof; The Doctor and the Detective

by Motherof4dragons



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, BAMF Kylo Ren, BAMF Rey (Star Wars), Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Kylo is a Detective, Medical Trauma, Police Procedural, Rey is a doctor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27467002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Motherof4dragons/pseuds/Motherof4dragons
Summary: ReyOne bad decision would change my life forever. I couldn't have anticipated when I walked home from work that night that I'd bear witness to the murder of our city's most notorious gangster. The bad guys didn't notice me at the time, but I sure have their attention now. I've sacrificed everything with one goal in my life, to be a doctor, and to save lives. Nothing, not the criminals who walk our streets or Detective Kylo Skywalker, the mule-headed cop determined to protect me, is going to get in my way.KyloI took a vow to defend and serve. First, in the marines, and now, as a Detective for Lake Ansley PD. Women and romance have no place in a life like mine. But from the moment I laid on eyes on Dr. Desiree Kenobi, she's sparked every protective instinct I have. Smart, stubborn, and a little bit of a badass; I can't help it if she reminds me of myself. If I keep showing up at the same places as her, it's only to keep her safe. I don't do relationships after all. However, I'm not the only one watching her now. If she's not careful, I'm going to watch her get herself killed.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 23
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This book is about 80% written. You guys gave me the encouragement to post it in this fandom. I hope you like it!
> 
> ***I know her name is different. It's important. All rights itself by the end lol.

Chapter One

Rey

Bloody Hell. 

"Come on, sweet princess. Tonight's not the time to let me down. Turn on for mommy."

After an encouraging rub on the dashboard and a gentle stroke of the steering wheel, I turn the key in the ignition again. Nothing.

Zip, nada, zilch.

The Queen is dead, long live the Queen.

My uncles have been on me to get a new car for years; since I graduated Med School at least. Sure, Paula (short for Impala) may not look like much, and she may like to tease me now and then, but she's never let me down in a pinch. Day after day, she turns over like old faithful. Or at least she did. It looks like I pushed her one trip too far.

It couldn't have come at a worse time either. After one a.m., I should have been off work two hours ago, but the supervising attending on B shift called to say they were going to be late. Being the only fifth-year resident on A shift at the time, it was officially my Emergency Room until somebody showed up to replace me. 

I try to coax my car once more, but she just laughs at me via the utter silence coming from the engine. There aren’t even any lights on the dash. Maybe it's the battery? Could I get that lucky?

If I had a shift tomorrow, I'd go back inside and sleep on a spare bed somewhere, but tomorrow is my first day off in a week, and hell if I'm going to spend it in the hospital.

Thumbing my phone to life, I debate calling my uncles for a ride. They'd come, of course, but then I'd have to listen to Uncle Charles or Tito or worse, _both_ , lecture me all the way home on how this would never have happened if I'd let them buy me that car five years ago. Or every time they've tried to since then. 

Finn then.

Finn is my best friend in the world, and a trauma nurse at Lakeside Memorial. I barely hit the call button before I remember he's at his current boy-toy's house for the night. He'd come to get me too, but then I'd get the wingman verses cock blocker lecture from him. I know it by heart by now. 

Honestly, it's not my fault. 

I have these things called _standards_. He thinks all a guy needs to be good boning material is ‘single with a dick,’ and I just can't agree with that.

That leaves me walking or the local ride-sharing app. When I open the app on my phone, I cringe at my rating and my most recent review. Finn and I _may_ have had a tad too much to drink that night, but I blame the unexpected puke party that happened in the back seat of the car squarely on the dude driving it. If he hadn't taken those corners so damn fast, none of that unpleasantness would have happened. With a rating that low, it could take an hour before someone to agrees to pick me up.

Walking it is then.

I live a little over two miles from the hospital, so it's not exactly a trek. However, it is the middle of the night. There's a reason why my hospital treats the most gunshot wounds in the state, and most of those come in on the night shift. I look around the parking lot, taking in the dark corners and abandoned sidewalks.

Still, so long as I keep my head down and my feet moving, it’ll be a quick walk back to my apartment. I shove my phone into my pocket and hit the lock on my door.

With my bookbag tight to my back and my hand wrapped around my pepper spray, I hit the pavement.

***

Lakeside Memorial is in the heart of downtown Lake Ansley District. Our city is broken up into two halves, separated by the largest body of water in our landlocked state. The wealthy half of town is spread out in outlandish residences and small cookie cutter communities to the east of the lake. On the other side of the bridge, affectionately known as Cheapside to the locals, industrial areas and businesses are interspersed with houses that _don't_ require a dress code to enter. 

It also houses eighty-nine percent of the town's crime and poverty. 

The weather is typical for late September. While it's ungodly humid and uncomfortable during most days, at night, the temperature drops until there's a chill in the air wafting from the surface of the lake a few miles over. 

I'm wearing joggers and a long sleeve running shirt, my typical off duty attire, but I'm thankful I remembered to grab my windbreaker out of the back seat of my car. I hate strenuous activity when the atmosphere is like this. The power walking will keep me warm, but the sweat it produces will chill my skin. It's an excellent way to get sick. 

The moonlight and the streetlamps provide enough lumination on the sidewalk that I'm not walking entirely in the dark. The shadows make weird shapes on the cement around me, elongating and distorting images and activating my imagination.

I'm nowhere near the only person walking around the city this late. It’s surprising, yet not, at how alive our city is at night. Even if it’s a different type of liveliness than you see during the day. It’s the type of activity you find when you enter a cave long hidden from the sunlight, yet find it thriving with vitality. There’s a whole ecosystem out here that only blooms in the dark.

Every few feet, there's a body trying to sleep curled close to a building. With shopping carts filled with belongings and a nest of bedding on the ground, they've made themselves warm and safe as they can be sleeping on Lincoln street downtown.

I pass women on corners chatting amongst themselves while waiting for a potential customer. Several of the ladies I recognize from the emergency department, so I nod, and smile and wave in their direction. There are clusters of men, boys really, trash-talking each other in the glow of a McDonald's arches. The words sound harsh, but the tone in which they are delivered to each other gives proof that the language is just for show. If push came to shove, I'm sure I'm they'd all scatter in different directions.

I hope.

The older men are more circumvent in their activities. Whatever they have going on, they don’t want to draw the attention of anyone who happens to make their way down the street.

The air carries the smells of a city laying down to rest. There’s moisture in the wind, carried from the lake, and the atmosphere almost feels heavy, compared to the way it does during the day.

I keep myself as inconspicuous as I can while still maintaining a watchful eye on my surroundings. ' _Make sure your head is on a swivel_ ,' was pounded into my brain from my self-defense teachers, and it's a habit I've kept with me since childhood.

A glance at the street sign confirms I'm less than a mile from home.

A guy walks in my direction a hundred feet ahead, but before I can decide whether to cross the street to avoid passing him directly, he takes the decision out of my hands and does so himself.

He smirks at me, not attempting to hide the way his eyes devour my form.

"Don't worry snowflake. I won't scare you none."

I chuckle at the intended insult, but smile tightly and bob my head in his direction, nonetheless. He shuffle walks himself to the other side of the road.

"Unless you want me to bother you? Cause I have all sorts of tricks up my sleeve to give a good girl like you a fun time."

He's walking down the middle of the street, backwards, and against my better judgment, a real grin escapes my face. A car comes between us heading the same direction as my stranger, and he takes a few steps closer to the other sidewalk to get out of its way. He pays no attention to the vehicle, but waits until it passes to start talking at me again. He isn't frightening me, but I certainly have no intention of engaging with him either. I simply shake my head no and grace him with a wave before facing forward once more.

I never slow my pace.

"Oh, come on now. Don't be so cold sweet cheeks."

The next holler spikes my adrenaline slightly, and I resist the urge to turn around and look at him. His voice sounds further than it had a moment ago, and I can't hear his footsteps anymore.

But he also seems a little offended.

Suddenly tires squeal across the pavement. Whipping my head around to see where they’re coming from, I watch the white sedan flip a bitch at the red light. Gunshots break the stillness of the air ringing out in rapid succession.

_Pow. Pow. Pow-Pow-Pow._

In the heartbeat it takes me to register what’s going on, I swear I see the sonic boom part the air in front of me.

Without thinking, I drop to the pavement, covering my head with my hands and squeezing my eyes tightly as possible. Every echo of the muzzle blast rips through my body like a physical blow, though I remain untouched from the bullets. I can taste fear on my tongue, and my stomach clenches with the need to purge itself of my last meal.

Quick as it started, it stops. The tire sounds disappear down the opposite way they came from, and silence blankets over the stratosphere. The only noises audible over the blood rushing through my eardrums are the desperate gasps of a dying man coming from across the street.

With my hands still laced protectively over my head, I raise my eyes enough to see my heckler, who moments before was filled with a zeal for playful annoyance, now splayed out on the pavement with his blood coating the ground beneath him.

Instinct and training take over, and with a shove of my hands, I'm half running, half crab crawling across the street to reach him. I hit the concrete with a velocity that is sure to leave my knees bruised when I wake up tomorrow. Ripping my knapsack from my back, I jab the emergency button on my phone and drop it to the ground on speaker. 

Yanking my bag open, I pull the first aid kit from inside, only to realize how horribly inadequate it is for the situation in front of me. 

"Hang in there, buddy. I'm a Doctor at Lakeside, Dr. Dan. I've got you, sir."

I push him onto his side and internally cringe at the moan that rips from his body. I try to see if he had any exit wounds.

"911 what's your emergency?"

I'd forgotten about the ringing coming from the ground and jerk in surprise when the robotic voice bursts into the air. My head snaps in that direction so forcefully I give myself whiplash. The operator pulls my concentration away from my patient and bile rises in my throat. I glance left and right, thinking about the car returning to ensure it completed its job. The only thing that keeps my hands in place are years of training and practice. 

"This is Dr. Dan Kenobi of Lakeside Memorial. I'm on the corner of," I glance at the street signs again, "Lincoln and Everett. I have a gunshot victim, five shots, maybe more. At least two are still in him. Send an ambulance."

I have no way to stop the bleeding on this many bullet holes, but try my best anyway, using the gauze from my kit and then my jacket. I straddle his thighs and try to use my body to slow the seeping of his wounds.

The voice of the emergency operator is still talking, but I block it out, concentrating on saving my patient.

I can't, of course.

I knew that the minute I saw the quantity of blood leaving his body. I knew from the first moment my head left the pavement. That doesn't stop me from whispering platitudes and reassurances into the night sky while his blood quickly covers my hands and torso. It doesn't stop the tears that spring to my eyes when I see the life finally leak out of his.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to post the first 5 chapters to get us started!

Chapter Two

Kylo

The clock on our dash reads 2:31 a.m. when Hux, my partner, parks a street down from where the first roadblock and crime scene tape is strung up.

I take a breath of fresh air when I get out of the SUV, stretching with my hands over my head, and let my eyes slide over the neighborhood. The air is crisp and refreshing this close to the lake. But there’s a severity to it as well. Something heavy, weighing down the atmosphere.

Blood was spilled this night.

I'd like to say being hauled out of bed in the middle of the night is a rarity for our department, but I'd be lying. I lead the Investigative Unit for the Lake Ansley Police Department. We get hauled down whenever there’s something special about a crime, whether it’s a robbery gone wrong or cold-blooded murder.

What is unique, however, is the location. With the hospital two miles north, the bridge less than five south, and a police outpost three miles east, you don't get too many murder victims in this vicinity. Prostitution and petty crime? Sure. We get tons. Not so much for manslaughter. This part of town is by far the softer side of Cheapside. The further out from the bridge you get, the deeper you delve into the sin that infects our city.

We’re not a small community, not by a long shot. But we’re no New York City either. We don’t have a China Town, but we do have a Little Italy. And unfortunately, something in the water system seems to breed a special kind of crazy in our criminal elite.

Hence the need for me and mine.

Hux and I take our time making our way to the crime scene. It always fascinates me the way the underbelly of a civilization scatters when law enforcement appears. I could mosey up this street any other night with my badge hidden and see half a dozen people loitering in doorways and street corners. Still, as soon as I need a reliable witness, the whole damn block turns into law-abiding citizens, tucked safely into their beds by ten.

No matter, we hesitate in front of housing units, taking pictures of residents' names' on-call boxes and making notes of the hours listed on business windows. I'll send Poe or one of the junior detectives out tomorrow to start canvassing and knocking on doors. Or, later today since it’s technically Monday morning.

A whole block is cordoned off with yellow and white crime scene tape. It seems a little extreme for a drive-by shooting. There’s something else happening here that I don’t know about yet. That's why it's essential to come in a case fresh without other people's assumptions clouding your vision. Not that I don't trust my fellow officers. I just trust myself more.

There are enough flashing lights at the intersection to make the whole area glow red and purple. The CSU floodlights brought by the crime scene techs combined with the red, white, and blue strobe lights of the emergency vehicles are enough to make even the strongest countenance squeamish. It's my least favorite part of working a case at night.

We approach the barrier and a patrolman lifts the thin plastic in one hand for Hux and me to duck underneath. We give him a nod of respect and thanks, and Hux pauses to ask about his children. But I don't bother with words. Hux is loquacious enough for the both of us. I wait for my partner with my hands in my vest, taking in the scene in front of me.

Beyond the half dozen patrol cars and another two to three undercover sedans, there's an ambulance and the coroner's van parked inside the perimeter. Two detectives from the Narcotics department have their heads together on the outskirts of the perimeter.

Drug deal gone wrong?

The body is already in a body bag. It’s resting on a gurney in front of the coroner’s van with several lab techs standing guard over him. 

Members of the investigation unit scramble around the area. Two are taking pictures of what appears to be blood splatter on the main drag and sidewalk. One is walking the space with a video camera while two others are measuring skid marks on the pavement. Plain clothed and uniformed officers alike are milling around in clusters of twos and threes, talking about who knows what.

The lights sparkle in my eyes the wrong way, and a feeling of Deja Vu crashes over me. The walls of the surrounding buildings close in and then disappear and the taste of a flash grenade fills my senses. I close my lids and count to five, waiting for the nausea to subside. I dig my toes into my boots and will my feet to plant firmly in the here and now.

"I'm going to go walk the outside," Hux calls as he strides purposefully towards the other end of the blockade and just like that it's over. My senses snap back into the present.

Poe, my third, is inside and standing with a pair of uniforms and a woman by an ambulance. The lone female is out of place at a crime scene like this, and it sets off my alarm bells. _She_ sets my alarm bells off. I take a moment to watch their interactions. 

Of average height, she's slim in her figure, tiny. From what I’m seeing, I could probably wrap my hands around her waist with only an inch or two to spare. Her hair is pulled away from her face and into a high ponytail. Or, what used to be a high ponytail. Currently it hangs at a weird angle, strands of hair falling over her face. Her clothing is nothing special. Comfortable clothes you’d expect to see on a housewife making an early morning coffee run. Or a jogger running through the park.

What stands out the most is the two hundred-dollar bright pink fluorescent sneakers covering her feet, and the thick coating of blood covering the rest of her. This is not a girl who belongs on this block at this time of night.

She looks distinctly worse for wear. There’s devastation in the stoop of her shoulders, but defiance in the strength of her spine, and suddenly the need to protect this woman races across my membranes.

The back of my neck tingles, and I take an unconscious step forward before jerking to a halt.

Who is she?

Certainly not a plain-clothed officer.

A witness then? But how? And why? What's a girl like her doing on this side of the bridge at this time of night? She doesn't give off the junkie vibe and certainly doesn't look like one of the local working girls.

What went wrong in her life to put her right here, right now?

***

As I approach, the uniforms catch sight of me and quickly excuse themselves from the conversation. Poe watches them scatter and grins at my approach. It makes me want to smirk back, but I keep the scowl on my face. Poe is the youngest member of my team, plucked straight from the academy. He’s still fresh faced enough that he can smile at a crime scene at two o’clock in the morning.

That, and he thinks the way most people are afraid of me is hilarious.

It’s not that I'm scary. Okay, it's not _only_ that I'm scary. I like my crime scenes ran a particular way, and one of those involves talking to potential witnesses without any outside influences. Untrained officers who've made up their minds two seconds onto the scene qualify as outside influences to me.

Poe puts his hand out to shake mine as if it's been months since we've last seen each other and not five hours ago at Lucky's bar. Having been raised in the south, proper etiquette and manners were drilled into his head since birth. Fighting an eye roll, I return the gesture and allow him to make the introductions.

"Boss, this is Dr. Dan Kenobi. She was on scene when it happened. Dr. Dan, this is Detective Skywalker. He'll be the lead investigator on the case."

"I'd offer to shake your hand, but—" she holds her hands out in front of her, and I see the blood still thick under her fingernails.

Dan? Immediately my mind rolls through scenarios that would match a body like that to a name so distinctly male. The voice was undoubtedly feminine. They aren’t wearing a ring, and there are no other identifying markers to point me one way or the other. Nothing for it then.

"Dr. Dan? Do you mind me asking your pronouns or—?"

I let the question hang in the air between us and am rewarded with a distinctly feminine chuckle.

"I didn’t realize street cops were so enlightened. It's Desiree. Desiree Kenobi. She/her."

I ignore the quip about being a street cop. Seeing Poe’s desire to mention the sensitivity training we’ve gone through on the tip of his tongue, I shoot him a look.

She bends to grab something out of the bag at her feet and hands me both a business card and her driver's license. I unwillingly make a note of the way her spine curves when she folds herself in half.

"Even in the year 2020, a good portion of our population prefers their physician’s male. I use Dan for professional reasons. My legal name is Desiree, though nobody calls me that. I'm known as Dr. Dan at the hospital.”

I pocket the business card and hand her license back to her, after jotting down her pertinent information. She lives less than a mile from here, in one of the better condo buildings in this area. It’s adequate, but still not where I’d expect someone like her to live. And it doesn't explain what she's doing out here tonight.

"Well, Dr. Kenobi. I'm sure you're tired of telling the story but repeat it for me again if you don't mind. What in the hell happened out here, and how did you end up covered in our victim's blood?"

"Before you take her statement, boss, did you see who the victim was?"

I raise my eyebrow in silent question, and Poe motions for our witness to stay put and for me to follow him. 

"You're not going to like it."

With a silent nod at the morgue employees standing watch over the body, I tense when the face of my least favorite criminal informant comes into view.

"Jimmy Cardoza? Shit.”

I swivel my head around the area, taking in the scene with fresh eyes.

Narcotics makes a shit more sense now. As does the obscene amount of people crawling around my scene like ants.

“What in the hell was the number two of the Meadow Street Gang doing all the fuck way over here? And without his crew to boot. I'm assuming he was all by himself, yeah? Otherwise, we'd have a hell of a lot more dead bodies on our hands."

Poe scans the scene again, a grim expression on his face.

"Yeah, he was alone. I'll let our witness tell you about it. As for what he was doing this close to the bridge, unaccompanied? Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe his crew found out he was snitching?"

I can’t contain my scoff, my fingers itching to fist in frustration. Instead, they flex against the vest pulled tight against my chest.

"Don't be an ignoramus, Poe. His whole fucking crew knew he was a CI. That's how they were able to give us seemingly valuable information and still stay the most powerful gang in the county. He only gave us intel they wanted us to know. Kept narcotics busy while his crew handled their real business."

Their real business being guns, girls, and anything else they could move for a profit.

A flash of neon pink catches my eye, and I turn towards our single witness. She looks exhausted, but like she's used to powering through anyway. She's bent in half again, this time with her arms wrapped around her knees. She quickly squats, then straightens, stomping her feet and shaking out her arms. Shock? Or is she just keeping the blood flowing after standing in one spot for too long?

"Give me a lowdown of our erstwhile witness, will you? I'm assuming you ran her already?"

Poe gives me a look, before pulling out his phone and going over his notes. Another trick of the new guard. He keeps all his notes electronic. Claims he can type faster with his thumbs then he can write with a pen.

"Desiree Kenobi, thirty-three; only child, parents deceased. Steady employment history. She's worked at Lakeside for the last five years.”

“Did you run her?” I ask, keeping my voice even.

Poe nods his head, pulling up a file on his phone and shooting me an email.

“She's had an ungodly number of parking tickets, the majority of which are still unpaid. She had one arrest in college during the protest of a local magistrate who had allegedly gotten away with raping several prostitutes. 

"Worked a shift and a half at Lakeside Memorial today when her car wouldn't start. Made the genius decision to walk home. Was across the street when it happened. Uni's found her laying on top of Cardoza. When she couldn't find anything strong enough to stem the bleeding, she tried to use her body weight. He was dead when the ambulance got here."

A do-gooder then. 

"She walked alone at night?"

His laugh of derision says it all.

"Yeah, and I thought doctors were supposed to be smart. Still, she tried to save the scum."

“Show some respect, Poe.”

I give Poe the comment that look deserves, and he has the decency to look abashed. It doesn't matter that under the right circumstances, I would have killed Cardoza myself. What matters now is that a man is dead by murder in my city, and it's our job to bring his killer/s to justice.

And the doctor, as reckless as it was, tried to save him. For that alone, we owe her our respect. Even if she needs her head examined.

Hux approaches on nimble feet, and we watch in companionable silence as a female uniform offers Dr. Kenobi a cup of coffee. The good doc smiles in gratitude and brings the cup to her lips. Even though it's CSU coffee, which automatically means it tastes like sewer sludge, her eyes close in bliss, and her shoulders slump in palpable relief. The sight she presents makes something tug hard deep in my chest, and it takes all of my considerable training not to reach up and rub at the ache.

"Let's go talk with our doc fellas."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Rey

The night air has dropped several degrees, and the bubble around me is quite chilly now, despite the bustle of people in the immediate vicinity.

I feel the onset of shock and exhaustion trying to worm their way to my frontal lobe and resolutely push all of my feelings back into a corner.

The area around me is bustling, like its own little city. There’s even a table set up off to the side, covered with coffee carafe’s and pastries. Who knew you could order catering at a crime scene? The police arrived first, followed closely by an ambulance, and since then, emergency personnel have been arriving in droves.

This isn’t my first time at a crime scene. But I’ve never been on this side of it. I usually scoop and run, taking the injured with me.

The detectives that arrived are not at all what I expected them to be. Watching SVU with my uncles growing up, (Tito just loves Olivia Benson;) I expected off the rack suits and bucket loads of empathy. Instead, what arrived were giants in combat boots and intimidating scowls.

This certainly isn’t my first interaction with the police either. As an emergency room doctor, I talk with them on a regular basis. If not daily, then several times a week. But then, it’s on _my_ turf. I’m in my hospital, in my exam rooms. Plus, it’s not me they’re looking at. It’s the poor soul in the hospital bed.

I can _feel_ the detectives watching me from across the street. Yes, I'm not a suspect, but I get the feeling they don't like what I have to tell them either. 

It's after three a.m., and I've already lost track of how many times I've described the car and the sound of the bullets ringing out. It's easy to explain. I'm sure it will haunt my dreams for months.

Finally, they make their way back over.

The detectives make quite the sight. The big one, Skywalker, I think; stands slightly ahead of the others, who have flanked him on either side. I wonder if they planned it that way, or if they defer to him automatically? Either way, it’s impressive, and I’m sure that was the point. 

He's big, alright, enormous. He reminds me of what my uncle Tito would call a mountain man. There's nothing particularly special about him. He's wearing a black Henley under a tactical vest, light colored jeans, and boots. With a well-trimmed goatee and hair that looks like he runs his hands through it all day, he's almost putting off a Captain America betrayed by his government vibe. Or maybe more Henry Cavill via Superman, searching for his origins. Only if Superman had hair almost to his shoulders.

Does my comparing him to two different superheroes say more about me and the amount of TV I watch, or more about him and the aura he puts out?

Either way, Uncle Tito would swoon.

"I'm sorry about the wait Dr. Dan. If you could run us through the events of tonight, one more time, we'll find a patrolman to get you home. I bet you're ready for a shower."

Detective Poe radiates a good ole' boy hospitality when he speaks, and it helps alleviate some of the tension building between my shoulder blades.

The desire for a shower and my bed surges through me so hard it's my turn to swoon.

"Oh, God, yes. Please, and thank you."

"Start from the decision to walk, alone, in the middle of the night, through downtown Ansley please."

My attention swings to Detective Skywalker, and the disapproval dripping from his voice. The unvoiced accusation sets my teeth on edge, and I stand up straight as my five foot four will allow. I look Mr. Brooding in the eye, intending to give him a piece of my mind, and a spark of static electricity zings over my nervous system.

Disconcerted, I defensively begin my story.

"Yes, well. My car wouldn't start."

"Make and model?"

I cross my arms over my chest, somehow forgetting the blood congealed into my shirt, then yank them away with a grimace. I cringe as my gaze leaves the detectives for a moment and flicks to the blood dried and caked into my arms.

"She's a 2006 Impala, not that I'm sure what the relevance is."

"Where is it now?"

I look up again, and see Skywalker has followed my movements with his eyes. They flick over me, taking in everything from the plasma buried in the crevasse of my pants seam to the tremble running through my hands.

I fist my fingers, refusing to let the tremble show.

"My car? It's still in my parking space at the hospital."

“Do you know your license plate number off the top of your head?”

What the hell is this guy's problem? The third guy with them, _not Poe_ , has his notebook out and is writing while I speak. Poe is smiling and nodding, urging me along my tale. Skywalker just stands with his thumbs hooked into his vest at the armpits, boring holes into me with his eyes. I have to resist the urge to squirm.

I pull my phone out, and flick through my photo albums until I get to my important papers folder. I hand my phone wordlessly to Skywalker, who glances at it for a heartbeat before passing it to Poe.

At his silent assent, I continue my story.

"My car wouldn't start. I debated about calling my Uncles or someone for a ride but realized I’d be home before anyone could get to me if I simply walked. I palmed my pepper spray and took off."

Detective Skywalker nods his head, and Poe gives me a reassuring smile. Taking a deep breath, I power on.

"The walk home was fine. I was making good time. The, um, patient, um, the victim I guess,” and I cringe, not knowing how best to address the deceased, “was walking the opposite direction of me on the sidewalk. He was yelling at me—"

"Yelling? What was he saying? Did he hurt you?"

Skywalker takes a half step forward, before catching himself and dropping back between his co-workers.

God, this guy is—intense. His eyes are boring holes into me, and his fingers stretch and flex across his chest. I run my hands down my legs, ignoring the feel of the slick fabric against my palms. I need to get out of these clothes. I flick my gaze over his shoulder, trying to calm my runaway nerves.

"No. It was playful, or not aggressive at any rate. He even moved to the middle of the street. To avoid scaring me, he said."

" _Were_ you frightened?"

The insinuation makes me pull my shoulders back.

"No. I wasn’t. He didn't frighten me, but I didn't interact with him either. No need to encourage him. I work in the emergency department. I deal with patients all day long who talk a big game. I can count on one hand the number of times someone physically got aggressive with me. I don’t scare easily."

Some emotion flashes behind Skywalker’s eyes, but I don’t have the wherewithal to guess what it could be. He dips his chin in a sharp quick nod.

"Good."

I'd hate to be on the other side of an interrogation desk from this dude if this is how he treats his witnesses. The Detective isn't rude, per se. But his posture and tone are incredibly intimidating. I keep trying to turn my story facing Poe, but Det. Skywalker's very presence keeps my gaze turning towards him.

"A car drove by us, going east down Lincoln and I lost sight of him. The victim, that is. We were walking opposite directions, and his teasing was becoming fainter. Then, I heard tires squealing and turned to see where it was coming from. The car pulled a U-turn in the intersection and came back in our direction. When I heard the first gunshot, I dropped to the ground and covered the back of my head with my hands.”

I huff quietly to myself.

“Like that could stop a bullet." 

I can't help the self-deprecating tone that slips out. Maybe it _wasn't_ the brightest idea to walk home in the middle of the night.

Instead of another lecture though, Detective Skywalker surprises me. He reaches across the space between us, using his finger to push my chin up.

"No, that was exactly the right thing to do. A hand can't stop a bullet, but it can provide an extra layer of protection against ricochets and shrapnel. It can provide a barrier between kicking feet and swinging fists. When confronted with an enemy you can't beat, flee. If you can't flee, face them with honor. If neither options are feasible, make yourself the smallest target you can. That's what you did. You survived."

Smiling in gratitude, I take a steadying breath and continue. 

"When the car was gone, I looked up and saw my patient,” _shit_ , “um, the victim, on the ground. I could already see the blood pooling around him—two liters at least by then. He bled out right in front of me. I called 911 then grabbed my kit from my bag. It was no help. I flipped him to check for exit wounds. He cried out in pain. I figure when they autopsy him, they'll find five holes, two bullets still inside. I didn't have my wits about me to check for casings or bullets around us. I'm sorry. I knew it was too late. The only way I could have saved him was if it had happened in the hospital parking lot, and I'd had blood and fluids and a shit load of help standing by. Even then it would have been iffy.

“With no other way to stem the bleeding, I climbed on top of him, covering two of the wounds with my hands and using my body pressure on top of that, hoping to at least slow the bleeding. I was still assuring him that he'd be okay when I felt him pass.

“I confront death on an almost daily basis. Sometimes I fight him off; sometimes, I help a soul meet death as friends.

“This?

“This was something different altogether.

"I wish he would have died on impact. Bleeding to death in that manner is not an enviable way to go. It didn’t take a long time, but until the shock set in, it would have been very painful. Compound that with my entire body weight squishing him into the rough pavement—it'll be a long while before I can scrub the image from my mind.”

If I ever do. 

It's somber when I finish rambling. Looking at my audience, I can tell I've hit a nerve. The Detectives have seen the same things I have, but closer. They handle death on a more personal level. I get those that have a chance of being saved. It's their job to handle those that didn't.

Detective Skywalker breaks the silence.

"Thank you, Dr. Kenobi. I'm sure we'll have some follow up questions, but I think that’s all we’ll need from you tonight. You've already given your statement to the officers first on the scene, correct?"

I nod to confirm that yes, I've told this story a half dozen times now.

“And Poe,” I remind them, with a soft smile.

"Were you able to provide them with a description of the vehicle?"

I scrub my hands over my face, past caring about the blood still coating my fingers.

"Umm, yes. It was a white BMW. I think. They said I could come by and look at pictures of cars to see if I can pick it out when I bring my clothes to the station. I understand the chain of evidence from my own work and got an evidence bag from one of the techs."

A wave of exhaustion rides its way down my neurons, and a yawn force its way out of my face. I try to hide it, to shake it away, but Poe smiles and follows suit after me.

"Don't do that doc," he mumbles as the yawn stretches his face wide. "It’ll be hours until I can try to get some sleep."

The big guy rolls his eyes in evident exasperation, and I swear I see his lips tip up at the sides.

Maybe.

It's the first sign of humanity I've seen out of him tonight. 

"Hux, keys."

The handsome fellow standing to the left of Detective Skywalker removes a set of keys from his pocket and places them in Skywalker's outstretched hand. 

I don’t miss the look passed between him and Poe, who’s still trying to get his yawning under control.

"Stay with Poe. Maybe get him a cup of coffee. We can't have Sleeping Beauty crashing on us before we finish here."

He's talking to the pretty one, but his eyes never leave my face. The intensity of his gaze sends a shiver crawling up my spine.

"Dr. Kenobi, if you'll come with me, I'll drive you anywhere you'd like to go."

Uh-uh. No way.

There is _no_ way in hell I'm willingly getting into something as enclosed as a car with Mr. Tall Dark and Intimidating. Like the great genie once said. Phenomenal Cosmic Power, itty bitty living space.

"That's a sweet offer Detective Skywalker, but I live just up the road. I can walk home from here."

Three looks of nearly identical incredulity hit me square in the face, and an exhausted giggle escapes before I can swallow it back down. I twirl my finger around my ear as both an explanation and apology at my words.

"Yeah, okay. I just heard it. Sorry. That was dumb. I'm going on twenty-four hours without sleep, and the adrenaline has finally left my bloodstream. Let me try that again. Thank you, Detective Skywalker. I would appreciate a ride home, if you don’t mind."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Rey

The silence is deafening, as we make our way through the buzzing crime scene and back out the other side again.

“We’re a block this way,” he tells me, and placing his hand on the small of my back, guides me through the police tape and down the darkened road. The brightness of the spotlights fade the farther we get from the perimeter, and this time the shadows on the ground are causing me to double take in apprehension. As if at any moment, something could pop out of the dark and swallow me.

Except, of course, for the detective walking beside me, with his fingers stretched across my spine.

Skywalker must hit the automatic locks button on the keys, because the car lights flash in the air, a moment before he steps in front of me, opening the door and giving me room to enter.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, feeling the tension rising between us.

“You’re welcome,” he replies in the same tone, before shutting the door with a quiet thunk.

The driver’s side door opens, and the car rocks when he uses the hand railing to maneuver his bulk into the SUV. He has to push the seat back several inches, before he can fold himself in behind the steering wheel. It should be awkward, but his movements are thrift and sure, like he’s use to his size and the difficulties it causes.

He holds himself like only big men do. In constant control of their surroundings.

The radio is on quietly in the background, but I don’t make it any longer than it takes him to put the car in reverse before the oppressive silence eats at my control.

“Thank you for taking me home, but it really wasn’t necessary. The car was parked halfway there. It’s probably like five hundred feet down the road.”

He looks at me, irritation warring with amusement on his face.

“Speaking of home, what’s a girl like you doing living in an area like this?”

I bristle at his comment, defense of my community and irritation with his assumptions warring for my immediate attentions. It probably wouldn’t bother me so bad, if I weren’t so depleted.

“First off, you know nothing about me. So, the ‘ _girl like you’_ presumption, totally uncalled for. I may be small, and I may like pink, but that doesn’t mean I’m too gentrified to live on this side of the lake. For all you know, I could be running a criminal empire out of my spare bedroom. Second of all, I work in this community. I volunteer in this community; it’s only right I live in this community. It’s a good neighborhood, with good people. If you’re so jaded you let the bad cloud the good, then I feel sorry for you.”

He pulls in front of my building, without me ever telling him where to go, and throws the vehicle into park. He gives me an appraising look, his eyebrow raised in curiosity, and I roll my eyes at his examination.

“I didn’t mean to offend,” he tells me, and I get the feeling he’s evaluating me again, his opinion adjusting with every jerk of my head.

If only there was a way to tell if I’ve passed his test.

“It’s been a pleasure, Detective Skywalker.” I lie, reaching for my car door, but, of course, the annoying man follows me out onto the street.

“I’ll walk you up,” he declares, his eyes meeting mine for a moment. He settles himself behind me, his hand on the small of my back again. I ignore the shiver that runs down my extremities, chalking it up to shock and exhaustion, and not the feel of him crowding close behind me. I glance over my shoulder, as he reaches for the building’s door, and notice his eyes flicking everywhere. Head on a swivel, his gaze takes in everything, cataloging it away for when he might need it.

I pause in the lobby and point my finger up towards the ceiling. Hoping he’ll take the hint and say his goodbyes, but he stands there with a bland expression, evidently content to continue our stare off until the sun rises over the horizon.

I huff in exasperation, pulling my keys from my bag and head towards the elevator. Wordlessly, he follows me in.

The air is stale in the tiny metal box. The building is ancient, and it crawls up the floors, the light illuminating the numbers the only indication we’re moving at all.

I hike my bag higher up my shoulder, catching a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the elevator, and the color drains from my face as I see the extent of the night’s activities clear on my body. I’m a mess, from head to toe. Outside, and in. Tears well in my eyes, even though I’ve managed to avoid letting my emotions take over so far tonight.

Like a protective shadow, or an annoying stalker, Skywalker immediately steps forward with his hand on my back again, offering me silent support. I hate to admit that it helps.

The warmth of his hand soaks into my skin, and I find myself leaning back into his touch.

“This is me,” I mumble quietly when we reach my door.

He takes the keys from my hands, and the move is so unexpected, I don’t put up a fight until after the deed is done.

“I’ll check your apartment. You stay here,” he orders, leaving me alone in my doorway.

I hesitate a moment, two, before my brain finally catches up with what’s happening.

“Excuse me,” I snark, pushing my way into my home and slamming the door behind me. On second thought, I grab the door before it makes contact with the wood, and push it wide open again.

“Don’t you think you should ask before you shove your way into a woman’s house? For all I know, you’re some psycho rapist masquerading as a cop. Get the hell out of my apartment, Skywalker.”

He glances at me, but doesn’t stop his slow walk around my apartment. He peeks into every room, his eyes scanning the corners, before pulling the door back the way he found it and then moving onto the next.

“The way you see it, tonight was a bunch of coincidences. From where I’m looking, a prominent doctor was manipulated into walking home in the dark alone, and then shot at in a failed execution plot.”

I drop my shit to the floor, my hands crossed firmly in front of my chest. I cringe at the crusty feel of my forearms, and think about pulling away, but that would ruin the pissed off vibe I’m trying to convey.

“You don’t actually believe that bullshit, do you?”

He has the grace to hide a small smile before the bland expression falls back into place.

“No, I don’t. You were in the wrong place, at the wrong time. A brilliant woman made a bad decision, and is covered in blood as a consolation prize. That being said, anything is possible, and imagine the ribbing I’d take tomorrow if I dropped you off at home and a ninja assassin jumps out and kills you after I leave. I’d lose my employee of the month parking spot, and I need it for my bad back.”

I bite my upper lip, to keep my scowl in place.

“I needed to check your apartment, and if I’d have asked you outright, you’d have told me no. Or would you have said yes, if I’d asked politely?”

I seethe at that, letting his words sink into my brain.

“No,” I huff out, acknowledging the truth in the matter. “I wouldn’t have.” If Poe had taken me home, I don’t think I’d have put up much of a fight. But, something about this man rubs me the wrong way, and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

“I can take care of myself,” I tell him, lifting my chin in defiance. He watches me for a moment, before the hidden smile is back.

He takes his wallet from his pocket, and I get a glimpse of the badge clipped to the front of it. He pulls out a card, placing it on my counter. His face searches my kitchen, before finding a pen and scribbling something on the back of the card.

“Call me, if you need anything. If you think of anything. If you simply want to talk. My cell is on the back. Don’t be surprised if Poe and Hux call you and ask you to come to the precinct. We’ll need to go over your statement again. But right now, you need rest. And a shower.”

I jerk my head in little bobs in agreement, all anger draining out of me.

Skywalker closes the distance between us, stopping when he’s right in front on me. I tilt my head back to look at him, then tilt it back some more, before I can look him in the eye. His hand lifts halfway to my face, before dropping to his side again.

“You’re a brave woman Dr. Kenobi. But there’s a fine line between brave, and stupid. Remember that, please, for next time.”

Before I can open my mouth with some scathing reply, he’s out the door, shutting it behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Kylo

I let my breath out in a controlled exhale after I shut her door behind me. I can’t hear anything from the other side of the wood, but I know when her eye hits the peephole, and the tightness in my chest lessons some when I hear the deadbolt click into place.

I take the stairs back down to the bottom level, needing the activity to burn some excess adrenalin out of my system before I hit the pavement again.

She’s feisty, that one. And strong. I’ve been doing this a long time, and was in the military before that. It takes a special kind of person who can look death in the eye and keep on trucking like she did tonight. She seems to be focusing on the fact that she wasn’t able to help Jimmy. She’s not realizing that she could have just as easily died too.

Is that because that’s how her mind is wired? Was it automatic to worry about the health and wellbeing of those around her before herself? Or if, when the bullets stopped flying and the blood appeared, she made a conscious decision not to consider how it could have been hers.

I make note of her building; at the lack of doorman, but the keypad at the entrance. It would be easy to get around. Her door is wood, which means it would take one kick to bust it down, deadbolt be damned. Of course, to someone not as obsessed with security as me, her building is probably the safest on the block. I walk around the corner, and see the ramp to the parking garage, open and unsecure.

Her building doesn’t have video camera’s either. Which makes perfect sense. She doesn’t live in the ghetto, but that doesn’t mean her neighbors want their activities caught for prosperity.

I don’t bother to contain my eye roll.

Pulling out my cell phone I hit the speed dial for Poe.

“Sup, Boss?” he says, smacking his gum in my ear.

My eyes slip closed in exasperation, and I suck in a breath to settle my annoyance.

“The scene is yours. I have an errand to run. I’ll meet you guys back at the station when you’re done.”

His stuttering is loud through the dimness of my car, and despite my best efforts a grin splits my face.

“You’re leaving me in charge?” he clarifies, disbelief thick on his voice.

“Are you not a big boy?” I mock him.

“Yes,” he replied, offense warring with disbelief.

“Do you need me there to hold your hand?”

“No.”

This time is voice holds the baseline of surety.

“Hux will be with you in case you need help. You know what needs to be done. This is a big deal, Poe. As soon as word gets back to Meadowbrook, they’re going to hit the street looking for answers, if they didn’t do the job themselves. We need to get them first.”

“Understood boss, I won’t let you down.”

“I know,” I say, and I try to let my confidence in him shine through. I drop the line, before anything else can be said.

I start the car, but then, on second thought, send Hux a text.

**_Me: Keep him on a short leash, but let him take the lead. Meet you at the lair_ **

I sit in the driver’s seat for a moment, my gazing wandering over her building. I latch my stare onto where I imagine her apartment must be inside the building.

What do you want to bet she walks back to her car tomorrow, instead of calling a tow truck?

It’s not your problem, Kylo. She’s not your fucking problem.

I squeeze my phone tight in my grip, before I make a decision, and bring it to my ear again.

“Speedy, heads up.” I say, when the disgruntled voice answers after two rings.

“Skywalker, you bastard. It’s almost four a.m. Some of us have to sleep.”

“Yet you answered without hesitation, Speedy. Doesn’t seem like you were asleep to me.”

He huffs in amusement, and I hear him moving around on his side of the phone.

“Are you ever going to stop calling me Speedy?” he asks, a conversation we have at least once a quarter.

“Have you found a time machine? Because the only way I’m going to stop calling you speedy is if they take it off your arrest reports.”

He grumbles into my ear, but it’s not as disgruntled as he wants me to think it is. Adam Johnson, aka Speedy, used to be the prominent car thief in Lake Ansley district. He’d drive over to the East side, swipe a supposedly unstealable car, lead local police on a merry chase until he lost them, and then strip the car for parts. 

Now he runs a small auto shop on the edge of town, and keeps an ear on the underworld for his friends. And since I pay his CI check, that makes me his friend.

“I need a favor,” I say, pulling into the empty road back towards the crime scene. I take a left at the first intersection, easily bypassing the blockade.

“What kind of favor? The kind that gets me paid, or the kind that gets me killed?”

Sometimes, depending on the situation, those can be one and the same.

“Neither. The kind that has me owing you one.”

That gets his attention, and I can almost picture his ears perking up, like a basset hound catching a scent.

“What kind of favor?”

“Well, not the kind that has me lying on the stand for you, but the kind that you can call in at your convenience.”

“Crazy Kylo, in my debt. I’d be a moron to pass up that opportunity. What do you want?”

I take the last turn, pulling into the first entrance available for the hospital.

“Meet me at the employee parking lot for Lake Ansley Memorial. 2006 Impala. Bring your tools. And something to hot wire the car.”

“What the—?”

I end the call before he can ask questions I don’t have the answers too.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Kylo

"Okay, people. Give it to me from the top."

My team is still trickling in from the crime scene and whatever their tasks were afterward, but the core of my squad is all here.

We're in our conference room in the bowels of the downtown precinct, aka the lair. I want to blame the slang on our proclivity for watching superhero shows, but truth be told, I inherited the place, and the nickname came with it.

Our department is the basement of one of the most prominent buildings downtown. It was state of the art in its time. Only it's time was forty years ago. Now it's stale, damp, and falling apart around us. They've promised us an upgrade, but I'm not holding my breath. That promise is another thing I inherited.

The only good thing about it is it holds all of our local government's administrative portions in one spot. So, if I need to talk to a district attorney, I only need to go up four floors, go up one for court, and the lunch ladies in the cafeteria adore me, so I always get my French fries cooked hot.

The room we use for meetings is spacious, but in the way an abandoned basement is spacious. Sure, there's room to store all your shit, but without any windows, crappy lighting, and poor circulation, it's not exactly our favorite place to be. Unfortunately, when I'm not on the streets, it's where I spend most of my time.

There are long picnic-like tables stretched out in the middle of the room, with a rather epic mismatching of chairs. A few of my guys have brought in reclining office chairs. Others sit in simple straight back kitchen-esk seats. Hux, with a doctor's note and a little manipulation, finagled an ergonomic highbacked throne, as he calls it, that he drags between his desk outside and the meeting room in here. Poe, like the devout millennial he is, uses an exercise ball. Claims it keeps his core tight.

A shudder runs through me every time I think about it. My core is plenty tight, thank you very much, and I certainly don't use some fucking exercise ball to do it.

Silence settles around the room and all eyes turn to look at me, perched on the edge of the front table. My eyes skim the crowd, and then the whiteboards covering our walls. Every board holds pieces of a different ongoing case. But all of those can wait. The murder of Jimmy just jumped to the front of everybody's to-do list. My lead tech girl is standing behind me, taping pictures of the scene from last night on the empty board behind me.

Poe clears his throat before grabbing his tablet off the table.

"Victim was Jimmy Cardoza, white male, 31. Grew up in the life, he worked his way through the trenches until he became number two in the Meadow Street Gang. Killed at approximately 1:43 a.m. this morning at the corner of Lincoln and Everett's, in an apparent drive-by shooting.

"The ME hasn't finished processing the body, but it looks like our hot doc was right, and between the bullet wounds and the casings we found in the street we're looking at six shots, with five hitting their target.

"The techs have finished processing the scene, but it was too early to start banging on doors. We'll do that this morning."

"Video?"

"We're pulling street cam footage in a four-block radius, just waiting for the email that it's ready, and when we hit the streets, we'll grab all the footage from the neighborhood that we can without a warrant."

One of my plain-clothed officers raises their hand with a shit-eating grin on his face.

"Question. Who is the hot doc, and is she single?"

Poe snorts out a laugh, and I have to dig my fingers into the edge of the desk I'm perched on to keep from flexing them into fists.

"Dr. Kenobi was on the scene last night, witnessed the murder. You'll have to ask to find out her status update. Her relationship status didn't come up in our investigation."

Poe's eyes flick to me briefly, before back to his tablet again.

I rise from my perch, grabbing a marker from the table beside me.

Walking to the whiteboard, I write the letters WHY? in big capital letters and underline it twice.

"On top of the usual who, what, when, where, and how, we have an additional question we need to answer. Probably the most important. If we can answer that, we'll be able to answer the rest. Why was Jimmy in that neighborhood last night?

"He was killed forty-five minutes outside his territory. In a neighborhood where gang activity is slim to none. Find out what Jimmy was doing there, and we'll find out who killed him.

"Reach out to your CI's, have them reach out to their CI's. Mark Adams, Meadows number one, is not going to take this lying down, people. If we don't handle this quick and clean, Jimmy isn't going to be the last body that drops. I refuse to let a gang war break out in my city over this—quick and clean guys, quick and clean.

"Do we have an ETA on the autopsy?"

Poe rechecks his tablet before answering.

"The body is scheduled to be examined at two this afternoon."

"And where are we on ballistics?"

My tech girl takes this one.

"Give us a few hours, boss. The labs didn't even open officially until twenty minutes ago. We're putting a rush on everything Cardoza, but it's still going to take a little time. What I can tell you is that the rounds were 9mm, and the shots were spread out. I know it's hard to shoot from a moving vehicle, but even so, I'd wager our shooter wasn't a pro.

"Tire marks indicate they were going the speed limit on their way past Jimmy, then flipped a bitch and peeled out passing Jimmy when they opened fire. Tires were Firestone P225/45R18 by the skid marks on the ground."

Hux speaks up from the peanut gallery.

"Dr. Kenobi is planning on dropping by the station, to look through pictures of cars, see if she can't pick out the make and model."

"Hold off on that," I say. "We may still get lucky with surveillance video."

I toss the marker back onto the table, watching it roll several inches before slowing to a stop.

"Top priority, people. I want this closed as quickly as possible. Hux, take Bethany and Roger. Hit the streets. Gather all the video you can, knock on doors. Somebody saw what happened. Find out what Jimmy was doing in that neighborhood.

"Poe, we're heading into Meadowbrook, see if we can't grab a meeting with Mark. We need to give them some answers before they start asking the questions themselves. Or, we need to figure out why Mark would take out his own lieutenant.

"The rest of you reach out to your contacts. Start putting out feelers. Was there a conflict between the crews that we don't know about? What sort of problems is Jimmy's death going to cause? We need to get ahead of this thing."

I take the time to let my gaze travel over the members of my team. I meet them eye for eye, hammering home the importance of finding Cardoza's killer.

"A man was killed on our streets. It's our job to catch the men who did it. Alright, let's move."

***

“Remind me again why we don’t just scoop them all up and throw them in jail?”

Poe stops the SUV in front of the Meadowbrook’s local hangout and lets the car idle rather then turning it off. The brick of the building, once bright and robust, is now dilapidated and sunbaked. Lack of care combined with years of cigarettes being put out and beer being poured against the hardened clay has made the atmosphere dreary and bland.

The neighborhood is rough. The kind that finds you checking your door locks if you get stuck at a red light driving through it. Or, in reality, the kind you go five miles out of your way so that you avoid crossing the threshold.

But that’s only an outsider’s prospective. To those that live here, this neighborhood is home.

It’s barely 9 a.m., but I’m not worried we won’t find them inside. Things like liquor laws and hours of operation don’t exactly matter much in this part of town.

“Well, Poe, there are several answers to that question. One, we have nothing to hold them on. That’s why men like these have underlings; to go to jail for them. If we _could_ get them locked up, it would only be a matter of time until they’re back on the streets, running their crews.

“Second, and more importantly in my opinion, for all that Mark is a criminal, he runs his streets with a moral code. Of a sort. His product is clean, and for the most part he keeps it out of the hands of children. Mark thinks of himself as a benevolent lord. The God Father of Meadowbrook, even if he’s a pathetic and slightly unbalanced one.”

“And that’s good for us how?” Poe asks.

“Better the devil you know then the devil you don’t.”

I pull the handle on the passenger door, and Poe pulls the keys from the ignition, and follows me onto the sidewalk. His hand reaches to touch his gun, and I place my hand on his, gently pushing it away. They’ve had eyes on us since the minute we hit the hood. Even with the shield on his hip, they won’t talk kindly to him touching his weapon.

The inside of the bar doesn’t quite match it’s exterior. Neat and tidy, everything is in its place, even if it is well used. There are one or two old-timers at the bar, a kid that should be in school lining up a shot at the pool table, and Mark and his entourage, sitting at a corner booth.

One of the goons at the table starts to rise, but at a slight gesture from Mark, resumes his spot.

“Mad Kylo, long time no see. To what do we owe the honor?”

His tone is flippant, boarding on bored, and I get a sinking sensation in my gut. I feel more then sense, Poe’s eyes flick in my direction, but I can’t risk giving him confirmation either way until we’re out of the lion’s.

“We’ve come to offer you our condolences.”

He doesn’t react with any visual confirmation, but the thug twitches in his seat.

“Condolences? What’s wrong Crazy Kylo. Someone kill your puppy?”

“No,” I say, and send a silent prayer up that this doesn’t go to hell. “Someone killed yours. Jimmy’s dead. Watched them put him in the body bag myself. Someone is speaking to his mother at right this moment.”

The room freezes, the very air is held in stasis. The earth’s rotation stops, before they collectively take a breath.

As one, every person in the building turns to look at Mark. To take their cue from him.

“I apologize, sincerely, Mark. I thought you would have known by now. I didn’t realize I’d be the one breaking the news.”

He picks at the wrapper of the bottle in front of him, and I give him a moment to collect himself.

“How?” he asks, his voice bland and lacking emotion. His face is an unreadable mask. The emotion is in his hands, and the way they tremble as they pick, pick, pick, at that label. He wraps his fingers around the neck of the bottle, and I tighten my muscles in anticipation of him throwing it across the room.

“That’s what I came to ask you.”

His gaze jerks up to meet mine as he shoves his way out of the booth, anger radiating from his every pore. The bottle flies through the air, the weight of the half gone liquid giving it heft, whizzing ass over end before smashing against the wall.

My eyes flick to the side, and the person behind the bar reaches behind them and comes back with a sawed-off shotgun sitting on the countertop.

“You think I had something to do with this? Think I killed my own man. My best friend? Fuck you, pig! Get the fuck out of my bar. We’ll handle this ourselves.”

Poe rocks on his feet next to me, but I tuck my hands deeper into my vest, setting my toes into my boots.

“Jimmy was by the river, Mark. Lincoln and Everett. What was he doing there at one in the morning?”

“Do I look like his keeper?”

I let the moment stretch between us, feeling the air go heavy and stale.

“As a matter of fact, Mark, yes, you do. No one does anything without your say so around here. No one makes a move without your knowledge. So, I gotta think, if your number two was in that part of town at that time of night, you gotta know something about it.”

He stands a little taller, pulling his shoulders back and finding his equilibrium. The people in the bar squirm in their seats, not wanting to acknowledge the truth of my words. And what it must mean for them that Jimmy is now dead.

I speak, before he has a change to respond.

“Let the police handle this. Let me do my job. Dead bodies dropping on the corners while you look for the person to finish isn’t going to do anyone any good.”

I take a step forward into his personal space. He takes a step back, but looks me in the eye.

“I promise, I’ll find the son of a bitch who killed Jimmy, and I’ll make sure he spends the rest of his life in prison. No matter how long that life may last. But don’t take matters into your own hands Mark. Not yet. Give me a change to find who did this, and punish him properly.”

“They deserve to be dead.”

“Isn’t death too quick a punishment?”

“Who said it would be quick.”

“Stay out of it, Mark. If you find anything, you call me. Don’t get in my way.”

He’s silent for a heartbeat, before he gives a small jerk of his head.

“Get out of my bar,” he growls.

I turn on my heel and follow Poe out of the building. The itch between my shoulder blades spreads into a burn. I’ve never liked giving my back to an enemy.

We’ve barely hit the sidewalk before Poe’s mouth is on the move.

“Think he did it, boss?”

I wait for him to unlock the car, before dragging myself into the SUV.

“Nope. I don’t.”

“Think he’ll leave it alone.”

He starts the car, and the air condition blows warm air onto my face.

“Not a chance in hell. We’re officially on the clock. We have to find whoever did this before they do, if we don’t want any more bodies in our morgue. Let’s hit the street.”


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Desiree

“Make it go awaaaaayyyyy.”

The light from outside the window is filtering through my curtains. There’s a single ray of sunshine slipping from between the panels bright enough to cut glass, penetrating my eye lids and boring daggers into my skull.

I roll over onto my stomach, grabbing my pillow and using it to smother myself into the mattress but it doesn’t work. Part of the pit falls on being an on-call doctor. Once I’m awake, I’m awake.

Then the chirping starts from my bedside table.

“Urrrgh.”

I yank my pillow from my head, throwing it at my imaginary assailant across my room.

Funnily enough, it doesn’t stop the sound.

It’s been chirping for an hour at least. But without the sun gleaming in my face, it’d been easy to ignore. Now the beeping appears to get louder with every bleep of the notifications chime.

I shove my hair out of my face, then reach for my phone while still laying on my belly. The time on my phone tells me I slept for a solid five hours. The ache in my body feels like I slept on a pile of rocks.

There’s a pile of messages, and I open my app, flipping through what’s important.

**_Hospital: Daniels went up to room 416, surgery scheduled for 3pm_ **

That’s a sigh of relief. I had a patient come in with a bowel obstruction, and the surgeon on call wanted to wait to see if it would pass on its own. To say I strongly disagreed would be the understatement of the week. I submitted an official complaint to his supervisor, then asked the charge nurse to me kept informed of the patient’s progress.

I’m going to have to avoid Dr. Dickface for the immediate future, but at least the patient is getting surgery. Dickface isn’t going to be pleased that his initial patient plan was overridden.

**_Uncle C: Not a problem easy peasy. See you when you get here._ **

Uncle Charles. I sent a message to our family chat before I collapsed into bed that I wouldn’t make brunch this morning. We normally try to get together at least once a week for brunch and cocktails. Or brunch and orange juice, if I have a shift that evening. I was debating about cancelling altogether, but if I go too long without visiting, then they come looking for me. They may technically be my Uncles, but they’re still my parents, and they can always tell when something is wrong. Besides, a hug from the men who raised me might be just what the doctor ordered.

**_Finn: Missed your call? What’s up? BTW, Nicks dick? Could move mountains._ **

Ugh. Her I text back right away

**_Me: I’ll tell you later. And Ew!_ **

The last message is from a number I don’t recognize. It came through about six thirty this morning, right after I fell asleep.

**_999-999-9999: Dr. Kenobi. I took the initiative and had your car brought back to your apartment. It’s in your assigned spot. My car guy replaced the battery and the positive battery terminal. I left his note and his card on the dash. Call him if you have any problems. Det. Skywalker_ **

**_999-999-9999: Also, we’ll be in touch about you dropping off your clothes from last night for evidence, and will probably need to speak to you again to go over your story, in the event the case goes to trial. Det. Skywalker_ **

**_999-999-9999: I hope you slept okay._ **

I read through the trio of messages, then read through them again, my incredulity growing with each pass.

The fucker fixed my car? It’s got to be a joke. Or he sent it to the wrong number. Maybe his wife was having car problems too. Because I know there’s no way on this planet that Tall Dark and Douchey would overstep his boundaries so freaking far as to move my property without asking.

I mean, that’s grand theft auto.

Right?

I drop my phone to the bed before crawling off and running to the bathroom. Five minutes later I’m wearing shorts a tank and a pair of flip flops with my phone and keys crushed in my grip running down the stairs into the underground parking garage that sits beneath the building.

That stupid mother—

Sure enough, sitting it spot 304, is my poor little Paula, rebuking me in silent condemnation that I allowed strange men to fondle under her hood.

The doors are locked, and I yank my keys from my pocket, before unlocking the door and diving inside, turning the key in the ignition.

She purrs to life without a moment’s hesitation, the clock on the radio already reset to the correct time. There’s a note on my dash, in chicken scratch so sloppy he could be a doctor, with a phone number, and an itemized list of things they checked. There also seems to be computer codes at the bottom, with a sentence about telling my mechanic if he asks.

That high handed over-bearing…

I pull the texts back up on my phone, then hit the dial button next to his number.

“Skywalker,” he answers, without any salutation.

“WHAT THE HELL MAN?”

I hear him excuse himself from whatever I interrupted, before the noise levels around him lower substantially.

“You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

My anger whooshes out in a huff, and I run my fingers through my tangles before pushing out of my car.

“Oh? Make it a habit of pissing off women, do you? Why am I not surprised? Well, let me refresh your memory for you. You kidnapped my fucking car! You and your fucking God Complex. Mr. Tall Dark and thinks he can do whatever the fuck he wants. Is that what it is? Does the badge on your hip usually let you get away with this sort of shit? Or do women like it when you kidnap their babies?”

I’m pacing the length of my car, and my voice is echoing horribly in the parking garage. Anyone who caught sight of me would think I’m a fucking lunatic. I don’t really care.

“I mean, I thought you were presumptuous last night, pushing in and doing a walkthrough of my house. But this? This is beyond the pale, man. I should call the police. I should press charges. Have you arrested for kidnapping.”

“Kidnapping?” he parrots, and I swear I hear him smiling.

“Yes! Kidnapping. You stole my car! I’m sure you didn’t tow it here, so that means you what? Hotwired it? I mean—.” My voice putters out into furious stuttering, and he uses the opportunity of my incoherence to speak.

“Did it start alright?”

I want to hang up the phone, but the lack of a slam would really defeat the purpose. Instead, the sincerity in his voice pulls an answer from my lips despite the inferno raging inside me.

“Yes.”

“And you slept okay. I mean, sometimes it’s difficult to sleep after a traumatic event like that.”

Again, the answer slips out without my explicit approval.

“I slept fine, thank you.”

“Good. You’ve got my number. Call me if you need anything.”

Just like that, I’m standing alone in the middle of my parking garage with a perfectly functioning car, and the desire to punch Detective Skywalker in the face.

The bastard hung up.

***

“I’m here,” I holler into the foyer of my Uncles living room, slamming the door behind me with slightly more force then strictly needed.

I love coming here. For all that it’s much too big for just the two of them, they’ve managed to give their house a homey lived in feel. If you didn’t know better, you’d think they’d lived here for half their lives. In reality, since the day I left for college, they’ve followed me across the country. First, Stanford in California, then Atlanta for Emory, then Lake Ansley when I started my residency. I have no doubt, that if I don’t get a fellowship and permanent position in Lake Ansley, they’ll pack up and follow me again. They’ve been doing it since the day they agreed to raise me

My parents died when I was six, and rather than uproot me to live with them, they moved into our house instead.

“In here, honey.”

Here, being the sunroom Charles has set up to paint in. Charles is an Artist, and Tito works with the stock market. Theirs is a quintessential case of opposites attract. As different in looks as they are in personalities, still, they’d die to protect each other.

And me.

I drop my bag off on the table, kick my shoes off at the door, and follow the sounds of Lady Gaga into the sunroom. Or the drawing room, which is what I prefer to call it. Because that’s why they hang out in there; so, Uncle Charles can draw.

I drop a kiss on each of my Uncles cheeks, Charles at his easel, and Tito with his tablet on his lap sitting in a lounger, before dropping onto the couch.

There’s an open bottle of wine and two glasses on the table, and I reach for the goblet closest to me, taking a healthy swig.

“Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner guys. I’ve had a hell of a day.”

Does the shooting count as today, since it was after midnight? Or does it still count as yesterday, since I hadn’t gone to sleep yet when it happened. Maybe it counts as yesterday for me, but today for all the first responders pulled from their beds to handle the aftermath.

The thought of first responders makes me think of Skywalker, and I feel the scowl slide over my face.

“What’s happened, Easy Peasy?” Uncle Tito asks, pulling my feet into his lap and digging his thumb into the ball of my foot.

I moan in ecstasy, and take another sip from the wine. I smile at the childhood nickname I can’t seem to break my Uncle from using. When I was learning how to talk, apparently I couldn’t say Desiree. It came out Easy until I started speech in Kindergarten. Somehow, the nickname stuck.

I take another quick sip of wine, my Uncles giving me identical questioning gazes, before I lean forward and place the mostly empty glass back on the table.

“Okay. First, you’re going to be mad. At me. Like, a lot, probably. But then, after I finish the story, you’re going to be angry on my behalf.”

“Okay,” Charles says, hesitation making the two-syllable word break into four. He puts his charcoal back into its case, and moves to sit in the chair next to Tito.

I reach for the wine one more time, swallowing down the remaining droplets in the glass.

“It started with my car.”

***

That could have gone better. I glance up from where I’ve been staring in my lap for the last ten minutes, waiting for Charles to catch enough breath for me to get a word in edgewise. I fought back when he yelled at me that we were selling Paula first thing tomorrow. After all, I’m 32 years old. I’m well past the age where my Uncles can force me to do anything I don’t want to do. But then he crushed a charcoal pencil in between his fingers, and I thought that maybe I’d better just shut up and take it.

It seems the wind is finally puckering out of Charles’ sails however, and he collapses back into his chair, from where he’s been pacing the last five minutes.

Is this where I get my temper from? Did I look like this four hours ago in my parking garage? Tito picks up the bottle of wine and refills both of their glasses, before giving me an accusing look. He takes the empty bottle from the room, leaving me to deal with Charles on my own.

“Did you hear what I said about him kidnapping my car, Uncle C? Certainly, there’s something we can do about that. Can’t you call your lawyer and ask?”

“I know exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to call his office first thing tomorrow and offer to shake his hand. From the sounds of it you’ve treated him horribly, and he was still nothing but a gentleman towards you.”

It’s my turn to stammer in righteous indignation, and I shove up from my chair while Tito comes back it with two bottles of wine this time.

“You’re staying over, yes?” he asks, already assured that the answer is what he wants it to be. He hands me a bottle of my favorite pale Moscato, and pours two goblets of white for he and Charles.

“Don’t I get a glass,” I huff, already brining the bottle to my lips. It’s a small bottle anyway.

“Do you need one?” he quips at me with an eyebrow raised.

“Not particularly,” I sass back in my best fifteen-year-old in a tizzy attitude.

“Sit down dear,” Tito says to Charles, dropping a kiss on his cheek and handing him the bottle of wine. Charles does as Tito says, taking a bracing gulp of the wine as soon as his ass hits the cushion.

“I for one,” Tito says, doing his best to play peacemaker, “want to hear more about this Alpha Man. It’s been a long time since anyone got your panties in a twist, no offense intended dear.”

I scoff at the outrageousness of his statement. One of the pitfalls of being raised by gay men is they have no qualms whatsoever of talking about my love life. Or lack thereof.

“Well, offense greatly taken! And what the hell is an Alpha Man anyway? Is that another word for self-indulgent asshole?”

Tito titters in disbelief, placing his wine glass on the table and reaching for his tablet.

“Why did we waste all that money on your education if you didn’t learn anything important. An alpha man is the king of men. The one we all strive to be.”

“Speak for yourself,” Charles mutters under his breath, before sipping another draft of wine. Tito ignores him, and instead hands me the tablet. It’s a YouTube clip of Chris Evans helping Regina King up the stage stairs at the Oscars.

I suck down a surprised breath at the same time I try to swallow from my bottle, and end up spewing the beverage in a spectacular arc across the couch and table, coughing and sputtering as it shoots out my nose. The tablet drops to the floor, as my Uncles lurch out of their chairs, one grabbing for the bottle, the other grabbing for me.

My sinus burn with the intensity of the beverage I just shot out like a super soaker water gun, and it takes me longer than I’d like, with snot running from my nose and wine dripping from my chin, for my coughing to subside and my breathing to return to normal.

My Uncles never leave my side, asking me questions I can’t answer and rubbing my back in an attempt to ease the pain. And the white-hot embarrassment now surging through my body.

“Why,” I pant out, my voice wheezy from the tightening of my vocal cords, “did you hand me that?”

The word _that_ spits out, as if I’m referring to a poisonous python, instead of an adorable video of America’s favorite superhero.

Uncle Tito looks at me like I’m crazy, before picking the undamaged tablet up from the floor and gingerly wiping the droplets of my explosion from the screen.

“I was using it as an example. An Alpha Man. You don’t get much more Alpha then Chris Evans. Strong, smart, well mannered, athletic, gentlemanly. Watch how he jumps up from his seat to offer her his arm, all without taking the limelight off of her.”

“It’s very dreamy, I’ll admit,” Charles contributes to the conversation.

“Why did you spit a forty-dollar bottle of wine out through your nose when I handed it to you?” Tito asks, amusement pouring out over his words.

I bring the bottle back to my lips, slowly letting the liquid coat my tongue. Only when I’m able to swallow several gulps without issues do I answer Uncle T’s question.

The wine was a great idea. Which means I’m going to regret this tomorrow.

I avoid his eye, looking somewhere over his shoulder. I’m never going to live this down.

“My first thought, when Tall Dark and Dickhead was introduced last night, was that he sorta looked like Captain America. In Infinity War, when he was all dark and brooding.”

I was right. Uncle Tito swoons.

Charles, who doesn’t drink all that much, and so is already half-way drunk, decides to hop into the conversation.

“According to Wikipedia, in studies of social animals, the highest-ranking individual is sometimes designated as the alpha. Males, females, or both, can be alphas, depending on the species. Where one male and one female fulfill this role together, they are sometimes referred to as the alpha pair.”

“Ohhh,” Tito says, warming up to the subject, “Brangelina!”

“Sweetie, they aren’t together anymore. I don’t think they count.”

I really should put a stop to this. Once they get rolling on a subject, it can be hard to get them to stop. But I’m afraid if I drag them away from—whatever it is that’s happening right now, they’ll circle back round at their yelling at me.

So, I guess I’m learning about the alpha man tonight. I pull out my phone and do my own Google search.

“Okay, fine. Urban Dictionary says,” and this I could get behind, “’ _The man at the top of the male dominance hierarchy. This prototype of a man typically displays all of the conventional masculine traits that are considered toxic today.’_ See! That’s what I’m saying guys. Toxic masculinity!”

Tito, however, follows up right behind me.

“Not so fast, cherry picker. It also says, ‘ _The hallmark of his persona is 'confidence'. The man that conduct himself with such class and possesses a swagger that attracts most women to him like a magnet; also, he's usually calm when it comes pressure.’_ What do you think Easy Peasy? Did he have a swagger that attracted you too him like a magnet?”

“He had a swagger that made me want to kick him in the balls.”

Charles gets up from his chair, coming to plop down on the couch next to me. He still has his phone in his hands, and moves so that we can both see the screen.

“What do you think Tito? Who’s your favorite alpha man?”

They order Chinese to be delivered, and grab another bottle of wine from the cellar, and I spend the next three hours with my favorite people on the planet, comparing pictures of the celebrity alpha man.

It’s like last night didn’t happen at all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. My mac died, and so I had to pull up an un edited verision that I had saved on the cloud and push through it to get all the kinks out. After this update, I think I'm going to start posting every few days. The story is complete!

Chapter Eight

Desiree

Finn and I are in the kitchenette in the emergency department, where we keep crackers and beverages for the patients. On the counter sits a coffee pot of regular and decaf, kept filled on a twenty-four-hour basis by whoever sees it getting low. We have a break room tucked away from the primary patient care areas, but this is much easier when all you need is a quick pick me up and a place to gossip between patients. It's large enough for a fridge and a table and not much else.

I thought about calling out today. After all, I had a ready-made excuse. One day off after what happened doesn’t feel like enough. But the hospital is my happy place. I never feel as at peace as I do when I’m helping someone feel better.

It's slow this morning, or as lackadaisical as an inner-city emergency room ever gets. I pulled Finn with me into the kitchen area to give him a rundown of my latest adventures and the conversation with my Uncles that followed it. I was hoping he'd be on my side. I should have known better.

"Oh, yes! I love me an alpha man. I only have two questions for you. Was he cute, and how big was his dick?"

_Alpha Man._

Right.

Apparently, I'm the only human on the planet not aware of that term. Of course, I am. Charles is right. I really should read more romance novels.

"Ugh, Finn. No. You sound like my Uncles! Did you not hear what I told you? The asshole hotwired my car. And why does no one seem to care about the bullets whizzing by my head?"

Instead of sharing my irritation, his eyes cloud over in concern, before quickly lighting up in excitement. 

"Oh sweetie. I know. What happened with that guy was just terrible. But your car? That is so hot. It's a shame you weren't with him when he did it. Then he could have given you a ride. I bet a man like that could drive a woman wild."

His face scrunches in anticipation. I swear a tiny shiver runs through his body. Finn is a god incarnate, and the intimate movement momentarily makes me wish he was bi. He reminds me of John Boyega, but better. Tall, thick, and gorgeous, his skin is the smoothest chocolate. Even in plain black scrubs, he radiates sex appeal. This month his hair is bubblegum pink, but you never know what you'll find one day to the next.

He's got a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas and the attitude to back it up. He's the best damn nurse in the hospital. The best friend too. Despite his constant desire to get me laid.

I shake my head in exasperation of his relentless sex drive. That man could make penthouse blush. Pouring myself another mug of coffee, I try to shove the now graphic image of me riding Detective Skywalker squarely out of my brain.

"Eww, and again, no. Besides, this whole thing is your fault. I wouldn't have walked home if I thought you'd have picked me up without a lecture on interrupting your sexy time."

"No. Nonononono. You do not get to blame this on me. It was your bright idea to jaywalk at two in the mor—"

He trails off into a confused silence as I drop to a squat and push my back up against the cabinet of the countertop tops.

"What is he doing here? What is he dooooing heeere?"

God dammit!

Instead of scolding me for my sudden imitation of a two-year-old, he whips around in anticipation, eager to see what caused my age regression. 

"Oh Dan, _please_ tell me that snack of tall dark and yummy is the Detective you've been bitching about for the last forty-five minutes. Because if so? That moronic walk in the dark is the best decision you've ever made."

Finn purrs out the word best, and now it's my turn to shiver. What is he doing here? Keeping my movements as small as possible, I turn so that my front is pressed against the counters, rising from my squat enough to peak my eyes over the counter. 

My haven is being violated, and the only thing separating me from the object of my ire is a pane of glass and forty feet of hospital hallway.

What an asshat. He could have at least called before he showed up unannounced. Of course, if he’d called, they wouldn’t be unannounced then, would they?

Skywalker and the good ole' boy are stopped in the middle of the floor, talking to Dr. Smathers at the nurse's station. Gone are the vests from the other night, to be replaced with something much more intimidating—undeniable sex appeal. 

Fine. I admit it. He’s hot. It doesn’t mean he’s not an asshole.

"Quick, which one is he?"

"You seriously have to ask?"

The nice Detective is wearing more of what I think of when one thinks of a homicide cop. A cheap suit and just out of bed hair. Not like he meant it that way either. Just like he honestly didn't take the time to run a brush through it this morning. He's wearing a tie, but it's all askew, and I see what looks like stains from a jelly donut. He’s probably a good ten years younger than Skywalker, if not more.

"He's wearing a Henley, Dan." 

His sing-song voice says it all, and I drop back below the cover of the counter. I rest my forehead against the cupboard doors and try to get my galloping heartbeat under control. I love Henleys.

Love them.

Don't ask me why. I couldn't tell you. It's not as if they are the be all end all of men's fashion. But ever since I watched that first episode of Dexter and saw the way his muscles flexed in his serial killer uniform, a man in a Henley just flat out does it for me.

Skywalker is wearing a torso hugging cerulean blue Henley and a pair of black fitted jeans that, if I was looking, make his ass look phenomenal. With his neatly trimmed beard and his slicked-back black hair, he looks good enough to eat.

I hate him for it.

"Unless you want him to catch you on your knees, and please, please let him catch you on your knees for him, I'd get up off the floor quick. JoJo's pointing them our way."

Usually, I'd lecture him on using Dr. Smathers’ sex name in my presence. He knows I hate that. Plus, eww, _again_ , that I even know he has a sex name. Another fault I can lay squarely on my best friend's shoulders. That's a detail I should not know about the man that signs my evaluations. Today I let it slide. I have more important things to worry about. 

"Hide me!"

Crawling on my hands and knees like an infant, I stop when he's in front of me then use his hips as leverage to pull myself into a standing position. Never one to let me down, he blocks me entirely, standing in such a way to let his pecs and personality take up as much space as possible while I get myself together. 

"Before they get here, can I have him? Please?"

God. Yes, please. He deserves whatever Finn gives to him.

"Done!" I yell whisper beside him. Faster than lightning, his comb is out of his pocket, and he’s whipping it through his hair.

By the time I hear the masculine voices, my composure has been regained, and Finn is practically purring beside me. 

**Author's Note:**

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